


dustbowl dance

by andromeda3116



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Prompt, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 11:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13234707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromeda3116/pseuds/andromeda3116
Summary: He probably wasn’t having the same trouble she was. He was more professional than she was, and he’d kept his eyes respectfully down the whole time. He was probably just embarrassed at being caught by the storm in the first place.Jyn, on the other hand, was struggling.It didn’t help that there was nothing to do in this Force-forsaken little hut except dwell on the fact that her (totally platonic) partner was half-naked ten feet away from her. She didn’t even have a pack of cards with which to play sab–solitaire, not sabacc, just… something alone and engrossing that she could look at and occupy her mind with.(The only thing worse than the awkward silence would have been to be playing a game opposite him and his… well, opposite him.)





	dustbowl dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thereigning_lorelai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereigning_lorelai/gifts).



> from tumblr:
> 
>  
> 
> _jyn and cassian, absolutely platonic best buddies after surviving scarif, getting caught in some kind of contaminated rain or fog or whatever on a mission and having to take shelter - and having to strip down (to their underwear - like, nothing too sexual) because of contamination. sexual tension ensues but nothing happens. but they are super awkward after returning to base and don’t know what to do with all these feelings for their absolutely platonic battle buddy._
> 
>  
> 
> _and you know how this ends… (with them kissing and living happily ever after… or something)_
> 
>  
> 
> y'all know this if you've read anything i've written, that "jyn is in hardcore denial" is, like, my jam.

In spite of the knowing looks they got from most of the flagship and at least half of high command, Jyn and Cassian were not _involved_. They were soldiers, and professionals, and far too focused on missions, and at any rate, were friends, and entirely platonic. Jyn felt about Cassian the same way she felt about Bodhi, or maybe Han (except without the usual desire to smack him upside the head).

Everyone seemed to treat them as a unit, but they were _partners_. They worked together. Of course they spent a lot of time together, but it wasn’t like they shared a room — although her own roommates, three world-weary women who Jyn had _thought_ were above such nonsense, seemed continually surprised by her presence in her own damn bed, every single night cycle that she was on base.

But it seemed like, with little else for much of the flagship to do at the moment, gossip was everyone’s favorite pastime, and there was only so much to say about Han Solo and the princess before things drifted back around to the “heroes of Rogue One”.

At first, when it had still been amusing, she had conscripted Bodhi into spreading fake rumors about them, but they had both quickly discovered that there was essentially nothing that the stir-crazy base _wouldn’t_ accept about Jyn and Cassian’s relationship, including but not limited to:

  * They had gotten it on in the shuttle on the way to Scarif
  * They had gotten it on at Yavin IV before leaving for Scarif
  * They had gotten it on _at_ Scarif, in the citadel
  * Jyn was secretly pregnant with his child (she had _thought_ that one would taper off, but it instead morphed into “well, she clearly wasn’t _before_ , but I bet she is now”)
  * They had shared a bed in the medical frigate after Scarif (okay, that one actually was true, but it had just been because the beds were limited and the nightmares were awful, and nothing had happened but sleep)
  * They were secretly married



Some of it, she felt, was at least reasonable, but mostly it seemed like the Rebellion had, collectively, decided to live out their favorite holodramas vicariously through Jyn and Cassian. It wouldn’t have been so bad, if it had at least been spread around some — but no, nobody shared the same stories about Han and Leia, or Luke and Leia, or Han and Luke, or Baze and Chirrut —

(Okay, fair enough, Chirrut would gleefully answer yes to _literally_ any question asked about his and Baze’s relationship, up to and including whether or not the two of them had formally adopted Jyn. Baze never, ever either confirmed or denied Chirrut’s answers, which was as good as admitting that he found them amusing.)

Nobody ever just accepted the truth, which was simply that they were partners who had a totally platonic relationship.

Entirely platonic relationship. No feelings of attraction or sexual tension on either side.

Which was good, because their current situation would be _embarrassing as hell_ otherwise.

This stupid little moon didn’t even have a name, but it did have an Imperial presence, which had struck everyone as odd — it was barely more than a stop-off with some refueling stations, the sort of place where people end up when they’re just barely not hitting rock bottom, not a place any sane sentient would bother going to. So why had the Empire built a factory here?

Jyn’s theory, which Cassian had agreed was plausible, was that they’d put a refinery here _because_ nobody ever came here of their own volition, and the only inhabitants were people who had to keep their heads down. Nobody was likely to stumble across it by accident, and there were no rebel or Partisan cells to muck up the works. It had made sense, but it had also meant that whatever they were making or refining here was probably something important that the Alliance needed to know about.

As it happened, in parts of the moon that were entirely uninhabited for reasons that had become _very_ _suddenly_ clear, there was a chemical compound in the dust that could be used as a caustic agent, when collected and purified, and there were any number of reasons that the Empire would want a chemical that would strip hydrogen off of pure water.

The downside to this was that if any of the dust got on any part of a human’s (and, presumably, most other sentients’) exposed skin, it would… be very bad, and very gross. It also tended to eat through clothing, but — in a design choice that now made total sense — not the stone from which all of the structures on the moon had been built.

(It _had_ struck Jyn as odd that, even on a featureless rock orbiting a dull-gray gas giant, there were no windows on anything, and everything was made from the same rust-colored stone, except the durasteel refinery and ships.)

Naturally, they had gotten caught by a dust storm.

Naturally, their outerwear had been contaminated, meaning that their underwear would, very rapidly if left alone, _also_ become contaminated, and Jyn didn’t even want to _think_ about that scenario. They’d been thankfully close to an old refueling station that had been abandoned, and so hadn’t spent very long in the dust, but getting rid of their outermost layers had been immediately necessary.

At first, it hadn’t bothered her — because the both of them had been so focused on _get it off get it off get it off_ that it had not occurred to Jyn, at least, and probably Cassian as well, that they would be stuck in this little stone building until the dust storm passed, with no or very few clothes.

Ultimately, they’d managed to get to safety quickly enough, and get the contaminated clothing off quickly enough, that they were left in underwear and undershirts, very carefully _not_ looking at each other.

At least, she told herself, it wasn’t cold, and they weren’t anything more than sensible friends and partners acting pragmatically in a situation that had taken both of them off-guard.

(He wore boxer-briefs. Jyn had not, as such, _needed_ this information, but now that she had it, it wouldn’t leave her brain. She had also made the mistake of looking at him, and catching a glimpse of… well, nothing, exactly, except a… well, a _bulge_ , and that _also_ would not leave her brain.)

“So, we’re leaving this out of the mission report, right?” she said in a low voice, and he made a noise of agreement. She glanced at him — he was sitting, (bare) elbows on his (bare) knees, with his forehead resting in one hand — and then quickly back away, determinedly ignoring the heat rising up the back of her neck.

In the back of her mind, she considered what would this be like if they had been a little slower, and he’d had to take off his shirt and maybe —

She coughed, and ran a hand over her face.

Even though he probably didn’t know anything more about it than she did, she still asked, “How long do these storms last?” with some desperation, and her voice came out at an embarrassingly-high pitch. She was glad he wasn’t looking at her, and couldn’t see her cringe at herself.

“The storm came on quickly,” he replied, and she told herself that she was imagining the strain in his voice. “The atmosphere is… thick, and cycles rapidly. It shouldn’t last too long.”

That was… a comfort.

(He was wearing an athletic undershirt, not a tee like she’d sort of expected, and so part of his chest was exposed, and —)

She stifled another cough.

“Good,” she choked, and vaguely wished for the ground to swallow her whole.

He probably wasn’t having the same trouble she was. He was more professional than she was, and he’d kept his eyes respectfully down the whole time. He was probably just embarrassed at being caught by the storm in the first place.

Jyn, on the other hand, was struggling.

It didn’t help that there was nothing to do in this Force-forsaken little hut _except_ dwell on the fact that her (totally platonic) partner was half-naked ten feet away from her. She didn’t even have a pack of cards with which to play sab– _solitaire_ , not sabacc, just… something alone and engrossing that she could look at and occupy her mind with.

(The only thing worse than the awkward silence would have been to be playing a game opposite him and his… well, opposite him.)

She closed her eyes, and tried to summon _any_ of Chirrut’s lessons on meditation. They’d been intended to help her center herself and channel her energy more efficiently (whatever _that_ meant), but her concern right now was dousing the heat that rose in her belly every time her brain offered up that stupid image of his —

(It had just… been a while. That was all this was. Just… plain old sexual frustration, and hey, Cassian was a good-looking guy, there was nothing wrong with finding his half-naked body easy on the eyes. It didn’t mean anything. It _didn’t_.)

There were few things she could think of that would better dampen her stupid imagination than the memory of Chirrut’s guided meditation, but it wasn’t really helping.

Right, okay. 

Time to get drastic.

Jabba the Hutt. Picture the gummy eyes, and the slug-shape, and the tongue, and the rubbery texture of his flesh, and the slime, and the…

It worked, right up until she opened her eyes again and saw that Cassian had been running his hand through his hair, and now it was all mussed and messy like he’d been in bed, and —

Shit.

Dammit.

Okay.

That weird noise Jabba made when he moved, the guttural grunting — ugh, gross, just picture _that_ happening in a bedroom, she wanted to _vomit_  — the unwashed and vaguely-cheesy smell he gave off, that indulgent laugh like the worst slimy uncle imaginable. The casual cruelty, the greed. The way he kept attractive female slaves, forced them to dance for his amusement.

She let out a long, slow breath, and decided not to open her eyes again.

.

(Cassian _could not stop_ seeing her legs. Even with his eyes closed and his head bowed, trying to mentally catalogue every single weapon he’d ever heard of just to spare his dignity, all he could see were long legs and the shape of her body in a skintight undershirt.

He wanted to _die_.)

.

It took three hours of horrid silence and even more horrid mental images, but finally, the dust storm passed, and shortly after, the locals’ droids — apparently programmed for immediate response in this situation, which made sense in retrospect — had swept the ground clean of the dust, so it was safe to walk outside again, even in sock-feet like Jyn and Cassian were.

Once back on their ship, they were able to put on spare sets of clothing — although at this point, Jyn would have made a toga out of a blanket, _anything_ would do, just to not see this much of him anymore — and, still uncomfortably silent, get out of atmo.

The entire trip back was spent in the same awkward silence, carefully avoiding each other’s eyes and watching hyperspace pass by as though it was deeply fascinating. Luckily, they arrived back on the flagship halfway through the night cycle, and were able to return to their respective rooms without having to be seen, a) wearing different clothes than they’d left in, or b) desperately keeping a ten-foot space between them.

(Also, the showers were empty, which was good for Jyn to, _ahem_ , work some things out.)

Cassian wrote and submitted the report, and Jyn signed off on it — no mention of the agonizing three hours spent in a stone hell-room, thank the Force — and between the report being finished and the, ah, showers, she figured that that was that.

Until the rumor mill started up again.

Someone — she wasn’t sure who, but was, on principle, going to blame Han Solo — had read between the lines of the mission report, and started asking, _so, like, did they actually get caught in one of these dust storms?_ Or else the imagination-zeitgeist of the Rebellion had just decided that it would be _great_ if that was the case.

And Jyn could not quite play it off like she had all the other rumors. Usually, she would roll her eyes and stalk off, but she found herself desperately denying them this time, even as every cell in her brain was screaming _shut up shut up shut up!_

As such, she had not… exactly… convinced anyone, even herself.

They were _friends_ , good friends, the sort that she’d never really had before, and she wasn’t supposed to be feeling this… attraction to him. Wasn’t supposed to be imagining running her hands through his hair or his hips bucking against hers or waking up cradled in his arms or —

The snickers were almost as bad as the knowing glances, but not _half_ as bad as the clawing discomfort that rose in her every time they were in the same room. She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t obvious to anyone else, that it was just her own heightened awareness, but Chirrut disabused her of that happy notion a few days after they got back:

“If your intention is to convince everyone that you and the Captain are not together,” he said lightly, voice carefully plucked clean of amusement, “you are not succeeding.”

“We aren’t,” she snapped, and his expression didn’t change.

“Of course not,” he replied. She watched him carefully, waiting for the other shoe to drop, which it did only moments later. “Yet.”

“ _We are friends_ ,” she said through clenched teeth, and he smiled.

“Ah, I recall that tone of voice,” he sighed fondly. “Baze said the same words, in the same tone, many times in our youth.”

She had no adequate response to that, so she’d settled for stalking off, telling herself that she wasn’t skulking away like a dog with its tail between its legs, that she was a dignified adult who was walking away for _good_ reasons, to do a better thing somewhere else.

Still, she could avoid Cassian, more or less — or at least keep to only interacting with him in public — until the next mission they were sent on, which was only a week after returning from the one she was now thinking of as the hell-mission.

And they had not actually spoken to each other since the… situation.

Which, in retrospect, was a huge mistake.

None of it had been dealt with, it had only been given time to fester and linger in (at least) Jyn’s brain, and the more she thought of it — and the more she heard and remembered the rumors — the more tangled up her stomach got at the thought of being alone with him again, even as she really _wanted_ to be alone with him again.

She was a big enough person to admit to herself that she was attracted to him. That was… not strange, even for platonic comrades in a time of war; in fact, she had it on good authority that no less than the princess herself had a crush on him, which she _very definitely_ found amusing and which _did not in any way_ inspire _any kind_ of possessive or jealous feelings in her, because _it didn’t._

Jyn had decided that avoidance was the solution, which she was now regretting, but committed to nonetheless. If she just… focused on the mission at hand, got through it, eventually things would just sort of… stop being this way, right? Her general philosophy with interpersonal issues was to ignore them until they went away, and this was no different.

It worked beautifully until they were all alone in hyperspace again and her thoughts… drifted.

He seemed agitated, eyes locked on the controls even though there was nothing new or unexpected there; even when he looked up, he wouldn’t look at her. He also seemed tense, shoulders slightly hunched, jaw clenched. The air between them was thick and heavy like cotton, almost unbreathable, and — Force be with her — they would be in hyperspace for eighteen standard hours.

There was no way they could do this. It had been bad enough when she had other things to do and focus on, but eighteen hours alone in hyperspace like this was going to drive her absolutely insane.

“All right, something has to give,” she snapped finally, and he half-glanced at her, as though afraid to actually look her in the face.

“Oh?” he replied, in a hoarsely-neutral tone, and didn’t elaborate. Of course, the bloody _spy_ wasn’t going to give any ground on this. Half of what he did to get information was let other people fill in the blanks, he _never_ offered up anything unless he _had_ to (or, she recalled, was very angry).

“Yeah,” she said, standing up and stalking away from the cockpit, to put some space between them so maybe she could breathe. It didn’t help. His presence still filled the room. “This is all… we’re being stupid, aren’t we?”

By the time she turned back to face him, he was standing, leaning against the armrest of the pilot’s chair, expression neutral. “Define stupid,” he said finally, and she growled in frustration.

“We’re partners,” she snapped. “We have to work together, we can’t be sitting here, all…” no adequate word would come to her, so she finished, a bit lamely, and with a shrug, “stupid. About this.”

Cassian blinked, opened his mouth to says something, then closed it again and ran a hand over his face. “That… did not answer my question,” he said, in a strained voice.

“You know _good and damn well_ what I mean,” she snarled, the tension and rising embarrassment making her angry. He seemed to be biting his tongue, now looking away.

“This is about the last mission,” he said, with no question. “The dust storm.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the dust storm,” she replied, annoyed. “You know, when we had to get almost naked and sit with each other for hours. And everybody’s talking about it back on the flagship. I bet that’s why Mothma sent us on this mission,” she added, and although she hadn’t thought of it before the words had been coming out of her mouth, they suddenly made a disturbing amount of sense. It didn’t _have_ to be them, and they didn’t _have_ to do it alone. But, oh, for whatever reason, Command thought it was best to send Jyn and Cassian, and only Jyn and Cassian, and (like the eager idiot she was) she had not questioned it.

Finally, there was a crack in his armor — rising color in his face, eyes now directed upward.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he admitted, after a long and uncomfortable moment.

If she was being honest, she wasn’t sure of that, herself. That she wasn’t the only one about to burn up from the inside-out with sexual frustration? That he’d been checking her out the same way she’d been checking him out? That she was being stupid and they were just platonic partners, obviously?

No — if that had been the case, if they were really both _just_ platonic friends, he would have been genuinely confused by this conversation, not hedging his bets and holding back and refusing to show any emotion.

If he hadn’t been at least _sort of_ thinking about it, he would have been a totally different kind of uncomfortable, squirming and trying to escape the situation, embarrassed and uneasy. It wouldn’t be the same _kind_ of tension.

Maybe it was just her whimpering libido that was telling her that, but it made sense.

“I want the truth,” she said slowly, taking a step closer. He didn’t look at her.

“What do you want the truth to be?” he countered, still dangerously neutral, still watching the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. Of course he still wouldn’t give any information.

Cassian had survived all his years in Intelligence by _not giving_. Jyn was gonna have to take this jump, and hope that he’d meet her halfway once he saw for sure where she was going.

It took a moment to steel up her resolve, which she spent by walking up to him with every ounce of purpose and anger she could muster. He still wouldn’t look at her, eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw clenched, whole body vibrating with tension.

She took a deep breath, and the words she had rehearsed — something self-assured, like _I want to at least give them something real to gossip about, I want to touch you, I want you to touch me_ — died on her lips.

Instead, what came out was a slightly-wavering, much-quieter-than-intended, “That you want me.”

Abruptly, his eyes were locked on hers, neutral expression becoming calculating, guarded. Searching for a lie, maybe, or any indication that she was joking.

He didn’t respond, or at least not in the amount of time that she was willing to wait (which was… not much).

Closing her eyes (so she didn’t have to see anything in his face she might not want to), she leaned up and pressed her lips to his.

It was… not exactly the romantic moment she had hoped for. He was still frozen, all that tension stretched thin between them, rigid and unmoving, and – shit. Shit.

 _Fuck_.

She started to pull back, but then the tension snapped and he responded, moving in, hand catching the back of her neck and pulling her back to him; she was taken a little off-guard, and had to catch herself against his chest, whole body pressed against his as her arms snaked around his neck and his other arm wrapped around her waist.

Cassian stumbled against the pilot’s seat, but didn’t break the kiss until she pushed him down into it and, in the same motion, straddled his hips. He looked… a little dazed, pupils dilated, face flushed. She doubted she looked any better (or, since he actually looked _pretty fucking good_ like this, from this angle, any worse).

“Like I said,” she breathed, with more composure than she felt, “we’re being stupid.”

His lips curved into a smile, and he murmured, “I guess so,” before pulling her back into another searing kiss.

.

.

( _coda_ —

“So,” Han said, drawing out the syllable suggestively, “what I’m hearing is, the trick is to go to an awful moon with murderous dust-storms.”

“I think Leia would just let you die,” Jyn replied blandly, without looking up from the datapad where she was trying to write a coherent report that left out all the details nobody else actually needed to know, and Han appeared to think about it for a moment, then scowled.

“Who said anything about Leia?” he grumbled. “I could’ve been talking about… Amilyn. Or, hell, Luke. Or —”

Jyn sorted and walked away, leaving him still spluttering and coming up with increasingly-ridiculous names.)


End file.
